In the principal's office, Detective Marcus Langley sat by himself, the door securely closed against the commotion outside. Above, fluorescent lights flickered dimly, giving the room's cream walls and inspirational posters a dreadfully dreary appearance. The smell of industrial bleach persisted, an attempt to purify the area, but the underlying hint of anxiety was too strong to be concealed by the harsh chemical sting.
In the center of the desk, resting like a relic from another world, lay a clear evidence bag. Inside, a child's plastic rabbit — dull gray, its left ear missing, its paint chipped in weathered streaks. To an outsider, it would seem meaningless. But Langley had been in this line of work too long to believe in coincidence.
The killer had left it. Chosen it.
He didn't believe in ghosts or omens — but this one felt like both.
A knock broke the silence.
Langley didn't look up. "Come in."
Principal Harris walked in, looking completely wrung out. His tie was loose, his collar crumpled, and he looked like someone who didn't have enough sleep. Normally, he would dress so neat and formal. But today was different.
"Detective, here is the person you wanted to meet."
Langley motioned him forward, and a second figure entered — tall, clean-cut, his presence oddly out of place in the sterile, administrative office. He moved like someone used to structured environments — back straight, chin high, steps measured. His dark slacks and fitted coat were crisp, but not showy. Everything about him said control.
The man extended a hand. "Nathan Cross. Literature."
Langley shook it, noting the firm grip, the unwavering gaze. Ice-blue eyes. Observant. Calculating. Not the sort that missed much. He wasn't young, but not old either — late thirties, maybe early forties. There was an edge to him, just beneath the professional exterior — a quiet tension, like a coiled spring.
"New hire?" Langley asked.
"Joined two months ago," Harris interjected, standing awkwardly behind him. "Transferred in from a charter school upstate. Before that, military. Special Forces, I believe."
Langley's brow lifted slightly. "Hell of a time to take up teaching."
Nathan gave a tight smile — not amused, just polite. "I've seen worse first weeks."
"Bet you have," Langley muttered, motioning for him to take a seat. "I understand you've had a few… issues with students."
Nathan sat, unhurried. "I've intervened when necessary. The bullying problem here is rampant. Everyone knows it, no one stops it."
"Tyler Grant among them?"
Nathan's jaw tightened. "He was one of the worst. Him, Jason Cole, Hunter Vaughn — they controlled this school. Harassed kids like it was sport. Teachers turned a blind eye. Administration shrugged. Most of their victims didn't bother complaining anymore."
"And you did?" Langley asked.
Nathan nodded. "Filed three reports in six weeks. Nothing came of any of them."
Langley scribbled a note on his pad. "Word is your 'interventions' got physical."
"Never touched a student," Nathan said immediately. "But I didn't play nice. I made it clear their behavior wouldn't slide in my classroom."
Langley looked up. "You don't mind being a suspect, then?"
Nathan's face didn't change. "If doing my job puts me on your list, so be it. I'm not hiding from anything."
Langley respected the frankness, but he'd met too many people who hid behind calm faces. It meant nothing if the lies were rehearsed enough.
"Where were you this morning, around seven-thirty?"
"On my run. I do a loop through the woods behind the farm road. GPS on my watch will confirm it. I've run the same route since I moved here."
Langley jotted it down, but his gaze never left Cross. "You know anything about this?"
He lifted the evidence bag with the rabbit between two fingers, letting it dangle in the air.
Nathan's expression didn't waver. But something subtle passed behind his eyes. Surprise? Recognition? Langley wasn't sure — it was gone in an instant.
"No," Nathan said evenly. "Never seen it before."
Langley watched him for a moment longer, then placed the bag gently back on the desk.
Nathan rose to leave. His movements were smooth, unhurried, but Langley's gaze drifted downward — just for a second — and caught something swinging at Nathan's hip.
A small silver keychain. Shaped like a farmhouse.
Innocuous.
Or deliberate.
Langley opened his mouth, ready to ask about it — but Cross was already at the door.
"One last thing," Langley said.
Nathan paused, hand on the knob.
"You got any family in town?"
Langley wasn't sure why he asked. Instinct, maybe. Gut.
Nathan's pause was slight. Almost imperceptible. But it was there.
"No," he said. "Not anymore."
He didn't offer more. He didn't fidget or backtrack. He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, vanishing into the soft murmur of voices of the students chatter.
Langley sat back, pen tapping slowly against the desk.
Something didn't line up. The too-calm demeanor. The perfect alibi. The keychain.
He turned back to the rabbit in the bag. Just a toy. Just a message.
Everyone in this damn town had secrets.
But Nathan Cross?
Langley wasn't sure if the man had walked into Alder Creek to teach poetry — or to bury ghosts.
Either way, the past had a way of surfacing.
And someone was using blood to draw it out.